


glass houses

by runnoft



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Angst, Bathroom Sex, Bottom Charlie, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Missing Scene, Top Meyer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27607235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runnoft/pseuds/runnoft
Summary: Margaret and Meyer find common ground.
Relationships: Meyer Lansky/Lucky Luciano
Comments: 19
Kudos: 21





	glass houses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FancyKraken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyKraken/gifts).



> Girl, I love you! I hope you like it!
> 
> Also a huge THANK YOU to @ooihcnoiwlerh and @PortiaAdams for proofreading!
> 
> This was originally supposed to be a "what if Charlie and Meyer got caught having a quicky in the bathroom during Resolution" fic that kind of turned into an angsty Margaret character study. This is still wildly self-indulgent because I go fucking bananas over the idea that Margaret and Meyer would have an immense amount of respect for each other had they ever been given the opportunity to interact on screen. They'd have an HBIC Club and they'd day drink and talk shit about how fucking stupid everyone was. Whatever, I’m right.
> 
> Yes, Charlie is propped up on the toilet with his feet against the wall. It's a small space. They're improvising.

She’s not sure of the time but their guests have blessedly begun to filter out. Not enough for her to retire, but there’s an end in sight to what she’d deem to be an absolutely disastrous evening. She very nearly put her foot in it with Dr. Landau. No doubt Enoch will have a thing or two to say about that later

A door slamming overhead puts an abrupt end to her thoughts on the inevitable row she’ll be having. _Teddy_. He’s not the little boy who would take her face in his tiny hands and whisper “Mama, I love you _so_ much” anymore. He’s become petulant and obstinate, but it’s no surprise to her where he’s learned it from. Still, checking in on the children will at least provide her with some kind of reprieve from playing the gracious hostess. Even if it means having to reprimand Teddy twice in as many hours.

She finds them both soundly sleeping. She knows when Teddy’s playing possum, but now he’s sprawled out on his stomach, and she watches his back slowly rise and fall beneath the duvet.

She’s drawn down to the other end of the hall by a thump (then another punctuated by lascivious chuckling) and the band of soft orange light slanting across the runner from the space under the door of the powder room.

She’d expressly told Enoch that guests were not allowed upstairs. There were only so many niceties she was willing to extend to some politician in her husband’s pocket, let alone one who was in _flagrante delicto_ with some chippy. She knocks but she’s met with silence. She knocks again, insistently.

“It’s fuckin’ occupied!” A man shouts from behind the door. The gall! She’s had quite enough of men who were not half as important as they’d like to think telling her to mind her place. She won’t tolerate being spoken to like _that_ , not in her own home—

“We should stop.”

Her hand on the doorknob immediately stills. There are _two men_ in her powder room.

“Don’t you fuckin’ _dare_.” The first man says, affronted by the prospect. There’s a gasp that bleeds into a string of panting moans—the kind exchanged between frantic kisses.

“ _Christ_ —get this open, _c’mon_.” She hears the metallic jangle of suspenders being unclipped.

“Patience is a virtue.”

“Shoulda thought of that before you— _oh fuck_ —before you done that thing with your mouth.”

“Smoking.” The other supplies, amused.

“You know what you did.”

“I’m sorry you’re so aggrieved. Will this help?”

Well, he was a noisy one, wasn’t he? Thank goodness for the din of the party. She considers the best way to handle the situation. She could get Enoch to deal with it, but the thought of asking him for anything beyond the civility he’s barely managed to maintain with her tonight makes her hesitate. Leaving it for someone else to discover wouldn’t do either. It would be a scandal, and there were few things her husband hated more than bad publicity. She has no other choice but to contain this as best she can on her own. She retreats to the doorway of her own darkened bedroom to keep vigil.

Something clatters, fallen to the floor. Were they going through the medicine cabinet? Why on earth would they be doing that?

“Anythin’?” The first man asks.

“Petroleum jelly,” _Good lord_. She buries her face in her hands against how hard she’s blushing. “Is that alright?”

“That’ll do, Little Man.” He all but purrs. “C’mere.”

Fortunately, she doesn’t foresee herself having to be there long. They seem eager to get down to it, though she can’t imagine how two people could arrange themselves in the narrow space. Unless—but that would require a great deal of strength, not to mention _balance_ and she wasn’t entirely confident that the wall mounted tank of the toilet would be able to hold the weight of a grown man.

“Here,” The second man grits out, voice catching on the edge of a groan. “Move.” The soft scrape of leather soles sliding up the wall was evocative enough even without the arrhythmic rattling of porcelain to accompany it. She grimaces at the fact that she’ll have to explain the scuff marks against the new _expensive_ floral wallpaper. It was certainly an ambitious position for something being done in a hurry.

Their coupling pitches in intensity after that, all swearing and punched-out moans and exaltations to God and to each other.

“So good,” The second man says with a reverence she doesn’t think she’s ever been on the receiving end of. “You’re always so good for me.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” The first man sounds far away, words slurring together. “Just wanna please you, ‘s all I ever want.”

The filthy, breathless conversation is enough to set her heart beating faster and heat pooling low in her belly. It immediately gives way to the cold stab of jealousy. Enoch can hardly bear to touch her anymore, and when he does he dresses as soon as he’s finished. He sleeps back at the Ritz most nights now.

The sex crests and crests until the first man sobs through his climax, the other not far behind him, whimpering muffled into a clothed shoulder or the tender flesh of his lover’s neck. Finally, everything goes quiet save for the gentle murmuring that passes between them, and somehow that feels more intrusive, more intimate, than anything else she’s overheard in the last half hour.

“If anyone asks, you’ve been with one of the maids,” The second man instructs when the afterglow passes. “The pretty one with the curly hair, if they want specifics. No one will be the wiser.”

The door swings open and one of Arnold Rothstein’s protégés, Mr. Luciano, saunters out a little bow-legged and rumpled. His bowtie is askew and there’s a love bite blooming just under his starched collar. He’s grinning like the cat who got the cream. He doesn’t notice her, even though she’s standing so close, only half-hidden in shadow. He bounds down the stairs two at a time without so much as a glance back.

When they’d been introduced just a few hours earlier, he’d bent to take her hand and press his lips to her knuckles. “It’s a pleasure” He’d rumbled against her skin. That alone had left her feeling as if she’d been coated in warm honey and licked clean. Had she been a younger woman, she would have been susceptible to such ridiculous flirting. She’d fallen victim to worse.

His associate, Mr. Lansky emerges looking decidedly more presentable not five minutes later. Unlike his partner, his face is inscrutable and there isn’t a stitch on him that’s out of place. As soon as Mr. Luciano stepped into the hall she’d had a pretty good idea of who might be in there with him. It wasn’t much to go on, but his lip had curled into a snarl when he’d given her a curt “How do you do” after Mr. Luciano made a show of kissing her. She couldn’t fault him for it. Being in love was a difficult thing when you couldn’t lay claim to it.

The familiarity of having to hide pieces of herself away in plain sight, mirrored back at her in someone else (having to become a veritable serpent in the grass) makes despair knot beneath her ribs. She knew all too well that if the lie wasn’t cultivated and maintained, every small blunder, every lapse in judgment would leave cracks in the facade. Mr. Luciano rejoining the party disheveled and smug was an oversight, but given his reputation as being a bit of a lothario, it’s possible that he’d be taken at his word for having a tumble with Katy. It wouldn’t be the first time she comported herself inappropriately with Enoch’s colleagues, either. However, Mr. Lansky appearing too close on the heels of his friend and smelling of sex no matter how fastidiously he dressed himself _was_ a foolish mistake. She should just let him go. These men were nothing to her, just as she was to them, and she has no earthly reason to want to see their plans succeed. She finds herself calling out to him before she really means to.

“You should wait if you want your timing to be more convincing.”

He stops dead in his tracks and his head snaps up, absolutely terror stricken. For a moment she worries he’s going to vomit on his shoes but he recovers and meets her eyes in the relative darkness. A dangerous range of emotions flash across his face before he smiles at her with bared teeth. A very definite threat.

“Mrs. Thompson,” He clasps his hands in front of him, deceptively benign. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” He won’t hurt her. Not here, anyway. He doesn’t strike her as the type of man who would draw unnecessary attention to himself (and he won’t, not if he’ll listen). She still recoils from him instinctively. “Before we discuss this any further, I’d like to make it clear that I mean you no harm. I’ve no intention to use this against you.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. We have a great deal in common, you see. I understand what it means to be regarded as... _undesirable_. By polite society.”

That gives him pause. “Thank you,” He says like he’s weighing every word very carefully. “Your discretion is appreciated. But, why would you help us?”

It’s a reasonable question. By all rights, she should report them to the authorities, as her faith would dictate. Sodomy was a cardinal sin, and she suspected that was probably the least of it for men like them. She would know. She’d been trying to outrun her own sins for a long time.

She thinks of her mother, wringing her hands, twisting her rosary between trembling fingers. She was ruined. Unwed and pregnant, bringing shame on their family. She thinks of Douglas. Young and keen. She’d wanted him so much, and she destroyed him despite every effort she made not to. She had been a selfish girl. Unable, no, _unwilling_ to accept the consequences of her reckless actions. Eamonn still won’t see her. He returns her gifts, her charity, he calls it. Her betrayal hardened him more than any their father had ever dealt him. Eamonn had always been a sweet-tempered boy, but she wonders if he would have struck her if she’d been caught. There had been so much blood between her legs, and though the pain had been excruciating, she’d felt relief. She was relieved when she understood just what Enoch had done for her. Granting her freedom by way of a gilded cage. She can still feel Owen’s hands—his mouth—on her. Everywhere. Filling her up. Another man willing to dash himself against the rocks when she’d asked him if he was hers to command. Giving in to her desire for him had been the nail in her coffin. That was to be her final judgement, but it had been a long year. America wasn’t Ireland, and she was tired of running.

She smiles wanly. “I was taught that those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”

The side of his mouth quirks, those deep-set, black eyes never leaving her face. “Sound advice.” He’s handsome, she decides, in his own way. Broad shouldered and masculine despite his stature. She can understand why Mr. Luciano is so enamored.

“No man is without sin, Mr. Lansky.”

“You Catholics. All fire and brimstone.”

“Do you mean to tell me your people would know nothing of a vengeful and jealous God?” She says tartly and his eyebrows shoot to his hairline with genuine surprise. A startled laugh escapes him.

“If we’re to enter into this arrangement, I’d like it if you called me Meyer.” His earnestness leaves no argument that she’s impressed him.

“Meyer, then.” She’s equally pleased to have made an unlikely friend in this boy. He’s so young, barely twenty, but she recognizes something of herself in him. A hunger for more, to become something greater than what circumstance has made him, and like some fearsome predator, he lies in wait for the time when he’ll command the bloody rise and fall of kingdoms. But until that day comes, his life is in her hands. Her husband isn’t the only one who’s good at making allies. Except she’s much better at keeping hers.

She gestures towards the stairs. “I think you’re safe to go down, now. Mr. Rothstein will be missing you.”

“He’ll be wanting to get to the Traymore.” He sighs, making his descent and she follows. He turns to her before he reaches the landing.

“I won’t forget this kindness.” He says in that clipped, precise way of his, like he’s drawn up a silent contract that she has no intention of signing. She half expects him to extend his hand so they can shake on it.

“Don’t mention it.” _Not here, be careful_. He nods, and they don’t speak again.

Their timing is fortuitous. Mr. Luciano stands at Rothstein’s back in the foyer, helping him into his elegant overcoat, with another, undoubtedly Meyer’s, draped over the crook of his arm. When he catches sight of Meyer coming down the stairs he looks at him with such naked longing it’s a wonder they haven’t been found out yet, by Rothstein at the very least, or by anyone else in the crowd with half a brain.

He takes Meyer’s coat and holds it open for him to slip his arms into, leaning forward to whisper in his ear. Meyer doesn’t respond, but he cranes his neck up at him and it’s a little eerie to watch them carry on an entire conversation without so much as word spoken between them. Luciano lifts his gaze to her, wary, but inclines his head in thanks. She returns it. 

Rothstein observes the exchange. She can’t hear what he asks Meyer, but whatever he tells him makes Rothstein smirk. He tips his hat to her in farewell with Meyer and Luciano closing ranks behind him.

She only sees him a handful of times once she’s living in Manhattan. Mr. Luciano—Charlie, he insists—still greets her with a kiss to her hand, but Meyer always keeps his distance.

“How are you, Ms. Rohan?” He says with nothing but the utmost politeness. She hopes he no longer feels so beholden to her. That he’s become as fond of her as she has of him.

“I’m quite well, Mr. Lansky. And yourself?”

She receives the note years later. Arnold is dead, but all her expenses (rent which he hardly remembered to collect as it was, and Emily’s substantial medical bills) are mysteriously paid in full. It’s straight and to the point, and it’s unmistakable who it’s from.

_For your kindness. -M_


End file.
